Up All Night
by trunks111
Summary: Everyone is in their mid-20s. Is life really that good? Or is it all bullshit? A look on the lives of the South Park characters as adults, possible mainTweek. Inspired by the Blink-182 song "Up All Night". What makes life worth living? Warnings: Mentions of sex, swearing, depression, suicidal ideation, schizophrenia, mental illness, heteronormativity, probably more.
1. Kenny

\- Kenny -

Who would have thought, I would make it to twenty-five? Not me, certainly. I still die occasionally, once a week or so. Surprise, surprise, I still live in South Park. Hate it, as always. My life isn't good. It never was, I had good times, with the guys. But my life is still shitty. I work as a phone sex operator, weird right? I mean, not completely, given my "promiscuous" history. I guess I was a bit of slut in high school, I slept with a lot of people. Safely, of course, but that didn't stop some people from labelling me as a slut. The sex was always consensual and always safe, I made sure I wasn't drunk and neither were they. Nor high, even if we both wanted it, I abstained and firmly insisted that we would be sober, if we did anything more than kiss. Some of the people, were surprised about this, but others were thankful because the next day, when we woke in the same bed, they would ask if anything happened and when I assured them, that no, nothing happened, they were thankful either because they were in a relationship or they didn't really like me like that or whatever personal reason they didn't want to share. I didn't take it personally, consent is extremely important, regrets happen, but I prefer to not be the cause of someone else's; I have enough of my own to contend with.

I partied a lot, from the time I was eleven. Through my nineteenth birthday. After that, I don't know what happened. I just..., stopped going. I had a steady job, the one I have now, and it just wasn't appealing. That isn't to say I don't go out anymore. Though usually it's just out to Tweak Bros. for weekend coffee in a friendly shop, where I can sit and read, mostly uninterrupted.  
Tweek will occasionally come sit with me when he's not busy, sometimes we talk, but not always. I've apologized to him, for how I acted when I was a child, he seemed surprised but accepted it and thus began our sort-of friendship. I don't know if I would classify it a friendship, as we don't exclusively hang out - per se - it's more we sit together in his parent's coffee shop and occasionally converse.  
Otherwise, I am unbothered mostly. It is thanks to Kyle, that my supply of books is growing, he told me of a service, OwlCrate, in which they monthly deliver a book of the month's theme. I began about two years ago, while I do not enjoy every book they send, I still attempt to read it. If it is too uninteresting to me though, I donate it to the library. I read about a book or less a month, so I do have a backlog of need to reads, but it's nice to see the pile dwindle and grow. I mean, I have a shelf, but I only put the finished ones there. I don't want them to be "displayed" until I've read them.

My apartment is okay - two bedroom, relatively small, but it has a working stove and hot water. Plus, it even has a washer and dryer in the the place; I don't have to go pay to do my laundry. Is it weird that I find that exciting? Probably. The second bedroom is more of a meager storage area, I don't have much, but I also don't really use the second room. I got the two bedroom place because of hope, probably a stupid one, but the hope that I'll be able to turn the second bedroom into something.  
With my savings, I managed to get myself the "next gen" consoles, playstation 4 and xbox one. Along with a decent tv, I can game, usually by myself or with random people. Though usually I use it for larger area background noise of Spotify, as I clean, make dinner, or read. It's fucked to think that I'm twenty-five. I don't feel like it, not really. Life isn't necessarily bad, but it's not that good either.

If I don't have work, hell some days even if I do, I'll stay up all night. Just to break the routine. Reading or gaming, sometimes drinking, but not overdoing it. Life is okay. And I don't really know how I feel about that. It's something I longed for as when I was a child, but it's not something I ever expected to get. And now, that it is okay, I want something more. More than just "getting by". But I don't really know how to do that or what specifically I want. There's definitely a void in my life, but I couldn't begin to say what would fill it. My basic needs are met, I even have extra cash for coffees and books. But there's gotta be more to life than this, right?  
I mean sure, I've asked Satan and God, but they can't give me any flat-out answers. I'm on my own. To figure out what can make my life worth living.

Honestly, despite life being "okay", I'm not the happy or sultry person I show to the world. I'm really fucking lost, and not many people know that. My life has no purpose or direction, sex is more a chore, I don't really have close friends anymore, life is monotonous.

I don't even know why I keep this thing.

\- Mysterion

Kenny signs the bottom of the blog post, posts it, and then turns off his laptop. He sits on his couch, legs outstretched with his back against the armrest. He stares into the distance, Spotify playing The Front Bottoms "You Used To Say (Holy Fuck)". With a defeated sigh, Kenny places his laptop on the coffee table in front of the couch before swinging his legs over to stand. He grabs his orange parka before heading out the door. A lazy afternoon, perfect time for a coffee.


	2. Tweek

\- Tweek -

It's four a.m., but there's nothing unusual about that for me now.  
I can't believe I'm in my mid-twenties already. It doesn't seem real. But then, nothing seems real to me. I'm told things are real, and I know my medication is real. It helps, usually. Mostly. Probably 85% of the time. This is something ... else, sort of. Something I'm not being treated for. I'm alone, in my room, my parents are asleep in their bedroom though they'll be up soon, to open the shop and run it until It's time for my shift. That's the general routine. They help more that I'm on specific medications, and mom takes me to my monthly therapy appointment. Since it's in Denver and I can't drive. Most of the spare cash I get from working goes into simple things I like. Like stuffed animals. Or a new thermos or mug.

I'm staring up at the ceiling, it has a weird drippy-like pattern. Not the smooth kind like a hospital. Or even patterned like some houses. I'm trying to distract myself, but it's not working very well. My thoughts keep whirling inside my head. It's annoying but breathing isn't helping either.

It's like a conversation in my head, with myself. Which isn't uncommon for me, but it's different. It's not the standard stuff..., this feels more ... tangible somehow. It's hard to put into words really. But my therapist would encourage me to try. Words help us understand things. Even if we eventually find better words, the current words are good enough until we learn better ones.

But my thoughts are going like this, "You have no idea what it's like to see yourself pushing away your friends. It's probable they only really tolerate you anyway, and then you go and do that and just isolate yourself and then try to blame them but you know it's YOUR fault. You said and did it, they're powerless to stop you. It's on you to control yourself and be logical. You want to talk to your friends but you don't want to bother them with your emotional bullshit, which you know is bullshit anyway. You're angry at yourself but you can't just let it go like you know you should. But you won't because you're too stupid to let go, because you hold on to what's there, that semblance of control that you never really have but you like to pretend you have anyway. Who could you even message at 4 in the morning? Kenny? He works days, he's probably asleep. Craig? He works nights so if he's not at work, yeah maybe but he doesn't do the whole 'feelings' thing that you always try to drag him into. Pete? He works thirds too, he's probably at work or hanging with his friends. You could try, but then you'd just feel like you're bothering them. Regardless of whether you are or not. Because although you know, you know very well, people have lives outside of you and your friendship, you still naively believe, as children do, that people will just stop their lives for your problems. How fucked do you have to be, to believe that still? Gods, Tweek. You keep just barely talking yourself out of it, but gods you want to. You want to self-harm. You want to feel something else. You want that physical pain because you understand it, it's so much easier to deal with than the mental turmoil. But it's been months since you last did. You broke it after quite a while of not, but you've been good for another long while now. It doesn't really fix your problem, you know that, but still. Fucking still, you want to. You want to stop this bullshit but you don't know how. Years of therapy and you still don't know anything. Sure, you're classified as better than you were, but are you better or just better at hiding the problems?"

An alarm is playing, a favorite song. It jolts me from my thoughts, bringing me to reality. I turn off the alarm and gather my clothes for the day before going to the bathroom across the hall for a quick shower.  
Once out, I dress in long black jeans and a gray t-shirt with a dark green long sleeved button-up. I walk back into my room as I fiddle with the buttons on my shirt. I glance at my phone for the time and swear softly as I jog down the stairs, buttons on my shirt be damned. I start another pot of coffee as I also make some breakfast burritos. As the coffee brews, I eat. I pour a mug of coffee and then a thermos contains the rest. I sip the mug between cleaning the coffee maker.  
I run back up the stairs for my meds and then back down the stairs for my coffee. I shake out what I need to take and down it with a gulp of coffee. I finish my mug quickly and rinse it out, leaving it to dry as I stride to the door to stuff my boots on and leave for work.  
Not too cold yet, I notice as I walk to the coffee shop. I stuff my hands into my pockets as I walk, hunching slightly against the wind. I finally arrive and take my spot at the register as my parents move about the store, cleaning minor things and stocking varies things as they prepare to leave the last hours to me. If it gets busy within the hour, they'll stay to help until it dies down but if not, I'll be on my own. I smile when I see the familiar orange parka walk by the window. He comes to the counter and offers a grin before ordering his usual. I fix it for him and accept the tender, and he sits in his usual spot as I continue to wait on customers and clean. It's not too busy a day, and Kenny remains throughout my shift. Which is always nice, he knows I sometimes still get anxious walking home after dark. Which, by the time I'm finished, it is quite dark. He stands to the left of me as I'm locking up.

In silence, he walks me home, it's nice. He nods his farewell and continues on to his apartment. I watch his brightly colored back for a few extra seconds before stepping into the house and locking the door behind me.


	3. Craig

\- Craig -

Who would have guessed I would still be in South Park after graduating high school? Shit, who would have guessed I would have graduated high school? Craig snorted, returning his attention to the game he was playing. In This Moment was playing on Spotify as he played Forza Horizon 2. As he raced, his mind wandered.

He graduated school and searched for a job, eventually settling on a third shift one as a security guard for the Mall. It paid the bills, even if it was largely boring, but that was good. Nice and boring, just the way he liked it. He found himself a two bedroom apartment for himself and Stripe as soon as he could, beyond eager to get away from his parents. More specifically, his father. He was always an asshole, but it had escalated when Craig hit sixteen. His sister could do no wrong, his mom was uninterested in her son, and his father took his general drunken rage out on him. Craig's nose was markedly crooked from more than one broken and poorly set nose.

He made an okay-living by himself. He had enough for rent, bills, and food. Occasionally he would spoil Stripe with new treats or a new toy, a year ago he bought him a larger, dual level cage. He got himself games, but they were almost always secondhand long after release. It sucked that Clyde and Token were gone off to college, Clyde got a football scholarship and Token got a full ride to Harvard - if he kept his GPA, which he would because he was Token. Tweek was still around though, not that he hung out with him as often anymore. Their schedules were usually just too different. And Tweek was..., well Tweek. He had always been paranoid and anxious as a kid and teenager, but he seemed to get worse in some ways as they grew into adulthood. It wasn't that he didn't care about the blond, it was more..., he didn't understand a lot of it.

He knew he wasn't emotionally invested in anything aside from Stripe, which was fine by him. Even in high school, girls would want him because he was "broody" but he turned them all down unless he was high, then he just went with it, without any real enjoyment, more something to do.  
Life was boring and predictable. Why should it need to be something else?

His thoughts turned to Tweek. Tweek who always needed reassurance, who looked up at him with large eyes whether he was high or not, who trusted him inexplicably despite him doing nothing overtly nice, who used to cling to his arm in almost all stressful situations.  
It had always been kind of nice how Tweek would cling to him, how he would trust his judgement no matter the situation, how he would always be there even if Craig wasn't being attentive to him.  
Why?

He forcibly turned his attention back to his game, changing the song to X by Hellyeah. He finished a race then lit his phone up, the time read 3:30am. Tweek would more than likely be awake, he always had trouble sleeping. He returned his attention to the game screen, watching as cars drove around him. He glanced back at his phone before starting to drive in the game again. He made a disappointed noise and put his controller down, picking up his phone and unlocking it. He opened the text messages and located Tweek. After thinking for a minute, he just typed "Hey".

He tossed his phone down the bed and rested his head back against the wall, gazing at the ceiling. With a grunt he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his phone and stuffing it into his shorts pocket before going to the other bedroom to see Stripe.

He talked to Stripe, voicing his thoughts about Tweek to his little buddy. Stripe didn't answer him, which was fine, but Craig fed him pieces of carrot and let him scurry around the room mostly unhindered. Craig watched Stripe absently, wondering just what he could say to Tweek. He wasn't good with people. But Tweek wasn't really..., people. Tweek was..., Tweek.  
Tweek was like Stripe, they had a bond of some sort. Not that Craig was likely to outwardly admit such a thing.

It had been a while since Craig had gotten high, but he had the urge to, it would stop the thoughts about Tweek. He dug his phone out of his pocket and looked through his contacts. Who could he score some weed from and smoke with this late? Pete? He worked thirds too..., Kenny? No, Kenny had a day job but he might be more inclined to get high. Dougie? Kid was into some weird shit now, probably a bad idea. Jimmy? Dude was annoying as hell but usually had some great pot..., so if nothing else, after smoking the guy was almost tolerable.

Craig groaned, thumping his head on to the wall by accident, causing Stripe to snuffle at him with concern. Craig smiled and reassured Stripe he was fine before sending the same text to Pete, Kenny, and Jimmy.

As he was putting Stripe back into his cage, Craig felt his phone buzz. It was Tweek and Pete.

"Hi" from Tweek to which Craig responded "How r u?"

And "I can't tonight, tomorrow or the next day is better" from Pete. Craig grinded his teeth for a few seconds before stopping himself and replying to Pete "All right, just let me know".  
He could wait a bit. Jimmy was probably asleep as was Kenny. Kenny would reply sooner than Jimmy, as Jimmy had a late night comedy gig at Skeeter's and would probably be sleeping into the afternoon.  
Fuck he could hardly wait, he just wanted to get high and not think about Tweek.


	4. Butters

\- Butters -

It's no surprise most people don't recognize me anymore. Tweek does, but that's only because we have casual conversations as he makes my coffee, which I'm told I put way too many things in, but it tastes good and that's what matters to me. I give him a shy smile as he hands me my coffee before taking my usual booth in the far back of the shop, furthest from the door. No one interrupts me when I sit with my earbuds in my ears, typing on my laptop. It's nice, it does get busy, but the music drowns out most of the noise. I work for the newspaper, as senior editor. It is a lot of work, even though it's a small town paper. I prefer to go over everything twice myself, even after my assistant and the others have gone over it. I guess that's part of why I got promoted so quickly, at only twenty-three. I've been back here for almost three years now. And Tweek is still the only person that's noticed. I do like the anonymity, but it would be nice if someone else would take notice. I suppose at least that hasn't changed, I'm still forgettable, though that's not entirely anyone's fault - I have drastically changed since I left after high school. I dye my hair black, wear a heavy black hoodie, and usually black or gray cargo pants that hug my now muscular legs. I started working out frequently when I got to college. Enough so that no one made fun of me for being soft-spoken. My voice isn't as high as it was but it's not nearly as deep as Craig Tucker's, it's more mellow. I also have my fingernails cut short and painted black, sometimes I'll do some black lipstick and black eyeliner, more often the eyeliner than the lipstick though. I guess to some I might look odd or intimidating or even both.  
I'm not sure what happened, I guess it was my parents being abusive and everyone taking advantage of my naivety, but I'm much more fatalistic now. I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder when I got to college, I still attend one monthly therapy session, though I'm unmedicated. I learned a lot in four years of college and therapy. I'm low-key suicidal, it's rarely intense anymore, I'm generally aware of how to de-escalate myself. I have only one self-inflicted scar, it goes almost the length of my forearm from about 1/3 of the way down to roughly 2 inches above the elbow-bend. It's faint now, pale. It was around when I was 21, I think. I don't have very good memory for time and things like that. Most of it blurs together, I don't remember to do things unless I put it in my phone's calendar. I couldn't tell you what I did three days ago in great detail. I'm not sure why, but that's the way my brain seems to work.  
When I came back to South Park, the first thing I did was sign the papers for my first apartment. It wasn't terrible, a single bedroom with a washer and dryer. I worked for two years before purchasing(almost out right, I only owe a few more thousand) my house, it's a nice enough three bedroom place. I have various gaming and book-related posters covering the walls. One room is my "library" where I put all of my books and occasionally sit in to read. It's pretty plain though, just a Big Joe chair and a mini-fridge - away from the books of course - so I don't have to go too far when I would like a snack or drink while reading. The third room just has a few extra things, empty boxes and the like. My bedroom has my queen sized bed, dresser, nightstand, tv, and playstation 2. The living room has my other tv and game systems from gamecube to xbox one. Sometimes, I enjoy the life I've built myself.  
Other times, I hate it. I hate everything. Myself. The world. My house. South Park. My job. Just, everything. I've thought about adopting a pet from a shelter, but I don't know. I make enough money to cover the general costs, but I still don't know if I want that kind of responsibility. Which sounds strange, given I have an entire house. I guess it doesn't matter, I just don't know that I could adequately care for another creature.

I work every day, maybe not for long, but every day, I have some sliver of work to do. I like staying busy, most of the time. Other times, it's draining and I just can't focus.  
Sometimes I just sit in the booth at Tweek Bros. and watch the customers that come in, sit, leave, and everything between. Some of them I recognize, such as Kenny, Craig, Stan, and Bebe. Kenny looks better than he ever did when we were kids, which makes me happy for him, he never truly let on about how bad things were for him. Craig looks happier, in his own way, I wonder if Tweek sees the way he gazes at him, I don't think so since it's usually when the blond is facing away. Stan..., he doesn't look good, tired, he comes in generally thirty minutes before closing, so I suppose he has a night job, sometimes I want to talk to him, I remember he had childhood depression and would self-medicate with alcohol; but so far, I haven't said anything, maybe I will sometime though. Bebe, jeez, she looks amazing as she always does. She comes in at varying times, it's never the same time any day, but she always looks good, not just in appearance but she looks truly happy, and I'm so happy for her because I've been by the shop she owns, and it does well. I've read articles people have written about her business and her charity/social work. She donates the majority of her profits to women's shelters in the poorest areas, including here in South Park, along with occasionally being a guest-speaker at the high school to advocate for everyone to pursue their passions and to know she's available to talk or text or whatever at any time. It's really amazing, but Bebe was always like that.

I don't know, I stare numbly at the glowing screen before me, should I talk to Stan? What's the worst that could happen? I smile slightly, looking up from the screen to see Tweek rushing around filling orders, five or six people waiting. I glance down at the time, it's gotten late, since I've been sitting here thinking. I sigh, closing the laptop and returning it to my messenger bag. I slide out of the booth and sling the bag over my shoulder, I'll try to focus at home, another sleepless or nearly so night ahead. Just as I'm about to walk to the front to get another coffee, Stan enters and goes up to Tweek. Tweek is busy making Stan's order when I approach the shorter, slender noirette.

"Well uh, hey Stan," I speak softly, my normal tone.  
He turns to me in surprise, scanning my appearance and settling on my face, uncertainty plain.

After a pause, "Butters?" he ventures.

"That's me," I chuckle.

"Holy shit," he breathes looking up at me, which is weird, I was pretty short until senior year, shorter than him even.

"How are you? Really," I ask, taking advantage of his surprise to hopefully get an honest answer.

"Fuck um, shitty. I mean, it's kind of complicated."

I shrug, "I have time, but I understand if you have some where to be."

He glances away, Tweek left his coffee on the counter a few feet away.  
"I do, I've got work in about twenty minutes."

"All right," I withdraw a business card from my right-hand cargo pocket, my personal number, work number, and email printed on one side with the newspaper and its logo on the other, I extend it to him.

He looks shocked but covers it by quickly taking the card and his coffee, calling over his shoulder as he leaves, "I'll text you later!"

And so I step up to the counter and order my usual.  
"Hey Butters," Tweek offers a smile as he rings up my drink before turning around to make it.

"Doing okay?"

"I don't know. I've been trying to explain it to myself. And that's not going well."

"I'm around if you want to talk. About anything. Or if you want company after work," I offer, I know Tweek has been doing better since we matured but there's a lot he never says, which I understand.

He's silent, finishing up my drink. When he turns around and places it on the counter for me, he's staring hard at the counter instead of me.  
I wait patiently, inhaling the wonderful aroma of my coffee seeing as how it's too hot to drink yet.

"I... I think I would like that. But I don't want to keep you from your work."

"You're fine, if you don't care, I can do some while we hang out."

Tweek nods, he understands how hard focus can be, we sometimes do this, hang out, discuss everything on our respective mind's, sit in relative silence in his kitchen, or go star-gazing because it reminds him of Craig.  
I offer the blond a smile before going back and sitting in a booth while I wait for him to finish closing.

When he's ready to go, I ask, "What would you like to do?"

"My house," he replies simply, letting me brave the cold first before locking the store behind himself. Together we trudge through the cold to his house, once inside the door promptly locked and boots discarded. I set my bag down on the couch and join Tweek in the kitchen were he has already begun to brew a pot of coffee. A hazelnut blend I see as he returns the package to the cabinet.

I lean against the unneeded counter as he bustles about, preparing dinner for us, nothing overly fancy, simply a frozen dish. He tells me it will take the food just over an hour to be finished so I thank him and we sit in companionable silence while the coffeemaker brews the coffee. I sip my coffee and wait, if he wants to, he'll talk when he's ready otherwise we'll do our own activities and just enjoy the companionship.


	5. Pete

\- Pete -

'Life is pain,' he thinks numbly, as he continues stuffing product on to the shelves.

He works third shift in south park at the largest grocery store in town. It's not awful, pays the bills. Affords him some extra cash to spend how he likes. He's still friends with Michael, Henrietta, and Firckle, about a year ago, they had pooled their money and rented themselves a house. A very nice, spacious four bedroom, three bath. They're on the path to ownership as their credit is building to get the loan they need.

The black and red haired goth loves his friends, don't get him wrong, but at times he wonders if all their bravado is just that. But then he wonders if he's just turning into a bitter emo pussy. He doesn't think that's it, at least not entirely. He's just losing what little faith he had in Cthulu. Sure, the lore is interesting and it was "cool" as a kid to think about those things. But life isn't like that.

He doesn't dare to bring these things up to the others, but he also doesn't have any "close" friends outside of them. There's Craig Tucker, but that guy's like a brick wall.

Sitting on the floor, bored as ever, stocking the items, bringing them forward and making it all look nice. He sighs as he stands, his stomach chub bumping the items on the shelves above that he had finished fixing before sat down. He glared at the items before fixing them again and returning to the pallet of stock, separating out the smaller items for a different aisle that he wasn't ready for yet. He placed those items in an empty cart and pushed it to the side so he could use the pallet jack to lift the pallet and drag it down the aisle with him. He parked it to the right about halfway down and set about gently tossing the items to their rough locations. Once the pallet was empty, he returned it to its previous position and lowered it before yet again returning to the start of the aisle and beginning to stock more items.

As the mind-numbing task begins again, Pete's thoughts drift once more.  
Even though he does work thirds, he thinks he's sleeping excessively. He's gained a significant amount of weight, if he's honest about it. He hates the way he looks anymore, but he can't bring himself to change anything he's doing. He's wondered if he's depressed, but how can he broach that subject with his friends? If he's honest with himself, he feels trapped. It feels like he's on an island, drifting further and further from his friends as time wears on.

They've always been there for each other though, since pre-school.  
He wonders, vaguely, if his friends have noticed any changes. He wonders if they would actually leave him, if he talked about these things with them.

His schedule is pretty set, only changes for holidays or days he's offered to pick up and accepts them. So he could compare his schedule with the others and plan the day he's going to talk to them. Probably on their trip to Benny's, a tradition that hasn't died, but doesn't occur as often anymore.  
He acknowledges that he could do that, but he doubts he will. He doesn't want to bother them or rather, make them think he's an emo pussy.

Pete sighs as he finishes stocking the current aisle finally. He goes to the next one, setting up as before, and then beginning the same monotonous task of stocking that one too. Thankfully, there's only one pallet for that aisle, lunch is relatively soon. If he hurries, he can probably finish before lunch, or at the very least, be close to being finished with it.

He's almost done when it reaches lunch time. He glances down the aisle, maybe ten minutes worth left. He shrugs and decides to stay over those ten minutes so the aisle is finished and he'll only have the last cart of items to stock when he gets back.  
Lunch is only thirty minutes, but it's long enough. He has a spicy slim jim, some cookies he got for a dollar, and a monster to wash it all down. He sits in his customary spot, the corner of the building, and sits down to enjoy his lunch. He looks at his phone as he eats, nothing terribly interesting going on.

His food is gone by the time his break is half over. He contemplates going to the bathroom now or just waiting until he clocks back in. He's got maybe thirty minutes of actual work, so he figures he'll just wait until he clocks back in, the bathroom is literally right there anyway.  
He continues to scroll through his social media apps, finding nothing interesting.

At last, it was time for him to go back to work. He trudged to the back, waiting at the clock for it to be the exact time he needed. He clocked back in and went to the bathroom. He chose a stall and did his business before washing his hands and returning to the aisle he had left. It took about as long as he expected to finish it and after taking care of his trash and empty pallets, he went on the hunt for the manager of the night to see if he was needed in another department. Eventually, he found her, and she had him walk with her to the other departments to see who, if anyone, needed assistance. She left him in Health, beauty, and cosmetics, that department was always swamped.  
He was proficient in the area, having been stuck there numerous times. He asked what needed doing and then got his own aisle complete with two full carts of product that needed stocked.  
They had two hours to finish, he had doubts.  
However, it reached 630a and they were still cleaning up to prepare for day shift.  
He clocked out at 705, and exhaustedly went to his car. He drove home, tired as fuck. Pete was the only one up when he unlocked the door to the house. Quietly, he made his breakfast of frozen chimichangas before taking them and a soda up to his room. He turned on his xbox one and set it to Hulu. He put on some mindless comedy to fill the silence of having his breakfast. He sat the plate on his dresser and threw away his empty can in his trashcan before peeling off his work clothes and laying in only his boxers to sleep. He twisted around to grab his phone from his pants pocket and plugged it in before closing his eyes and trying to get some sleep.

He never decided whether he would talk to his friends.


End file.
